


Collection of Comment Fics

by SomeEnchantedEve



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Sex, Angst, F/F, F/M, Marriage, Prompt Fic, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeEnchantedEve/pseuds/SomeEnchantedEve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fills written for the <a href="http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com">ASOIAF Kink Meme</a>, too short or fragmented to stand alone, so presented here in one place.</p><p>Mostly Ned/Catelyn because I am a one-trick pony, but some other pairings thrown in there as well! Tags will be updated as fills are added!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. godswood lessons (Brandon/Lyanna)

**Author's Note:**

> All written for the Kink Meme, and too short or too light on plot to stand alone. But I wanted to gather them all in one place, so here we go! Each chapter is a fill to stand on its own.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "Brandon/Lyanna, her first time."

She has always learned from Brandon. 

Brandon taught her to walk, his hand sure and steady, to ride her first pony, taught her to use a sword (always careful to hide it from their lord father, they are good at hiding things), how to swing from the branches of the weirwood into the hot springs, and there is no one, no one she trusts more in the entire world, she loves all her brothers but Brandon has always protected her. 

So of course it is Brandon, with the time quickly approaching that her betrothal to Robert Baratheon will become a marriage in truth, that she asks to show her how a woman and a man lie together. 

He blanches, frowns, but his voice is unsure as he answers, “You should not ask such things, Lyanna.” She is so unused to seeing Brandon surprised and it gives her a secret thrill even as he denies her. 

Lyanna pouts, unused to being denied. “You certainly know how, I’ve heard the girls in the village talk. Not to mention that Ryswell girl, her father would geld you if he knew.” Brandon rolls her eyes, used to her complaints of any girl he (any girl any of her brothers, really) pays mind to, from the serving maid he smiles particularly wide at to the girl in the south their father has chosen to be his bride. 

She changes tactics, seeing that her indignation is not working, clasping his hand and looking at him with bright eyes full of fear that she does not completely feign. “Please, Brandon? I’ll fear it until my wedding night unless I know it’s over and done with. Robert is so…rough, at times, in just his embrace.” She is all honesty now, all eagerness. “I am…afraid. And whom do I trust more than you? Who loves me more than you?” 

She wins him as she always does, and he sighs and grasps her wrist, pulling her deeper into the seclusion of the woods, and she feels a tremble of fear and something more pleasurable course through her body as she takes two steps for each of his, hurrying to catch up. 

He backs her gently against a tree, and his lips brush against her earlobe as he leans in to whisper to her. “It will be in a bed after your wedding, of course,” and she thinks that she prefers this, the sweet smell of the godswood and the whistle of wind against her cheek, all the roughness of the North and home. He kisses her on the mouth then, and they’ve played at kissing before but this is different, headier, and suddenly his hand is creeping up her gown to reach for the laces. 

He is gentle and careful and slow, as he is not when she spies on him with girls he makes swoon and sigh, and his fingers tremble almost as badly as her own as he helps her stretch out on the mossy ground, her dress cushioning them (it will be covered in dirt and stained, she thinks, but that is no different than usual and no one will think of it, she decides). 

It hurts as she thought it would, her maidenhead giving way, hurts as it did when she first fell from her horse and Brandon catches her cry in his mouth and holds her close as he did then, and she feels more than anything relief, relief that she shall not be so vulnerable, so uncertain in front of Robert, she is always strong except for when she is the little sister. _I was right to ask him, I am always safest with Brandon._

“Thank you,” she mumbles against his shoulder as he wipes the blood from her thigh and she thinks _he has done this before_ but angrily she pushes that thought away, she does not like to think of all those other girls; Brandon belongs to her. “I am not so nervous now.” 

“He will be gentle with you,” he swears, taking her hand and kissing her palm. “He is certainly fond of you. And if he ever mistreats you, you will tell me and I will kill him.” 

He says it with such unyielding certainty that she has to smile, pushing him back so she can sit up, as though they have just been playing, wrestling as they did in their youth. “Ned says that Robert is a fierce fighter.” 

Brandon snorts, unbothered, but she hears the earnest promise in his voice. “It does not matter. I would kill him still. As long as I live, I will never let anyone hurt you.” 

He kisses her temple and Lyanna breathes in the scent of sweat still clinging to his skin. _Safe_ , she thinks, and she feels more so than she ever had before. _I am safe._


	2. and forgive us our trespasses (Brandon/Lysa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "Brandon/Lysa - Petyr may always be Cat's, but Lysa will have something of her sister's after all."

It always begins the same for her, though at least this time, the story is somewhat different. 

Brandon Stark’s eyebrows lift in interest, his lip curls in a sort of knowing smirk, _he is used to wanton maids_ , Lysa thinks, but when she steps into candlelight and her features come into sharper focus, he looks momentarily confused, thrown, and she sees that mental shift so like Petyr’s from what they thought (what they hoped) to see and what is actually there. 

But Brandon at least, Lysa notes, does not look disappointed (perhaps merely amused, but it is still a welcoming expression) and that is enough to strengthen her resolve, to swallow any lingering guilt at wronging her sister ( _she wronged me first,_ Lysa reminds herself almost viciously and she remembers how Catelyn’s name sounds on Petyr’s lips, how it sounded earlier, how she had crawled from his bed and wandered until she found herself here), and she loosens her robe, letting it fall to the ground, naked as her name day; she is afraid that anything less would give her time to run and hide. 

“Well,” he says, and he is cheeky and grinning, and so very handsome (and so very not Petyr), “this is a pleasant welcome, indeed.”

It is different when she crawls into his bed; he is so much bigger than Petyr, stronger and taller and broader and for a moment she feels a flutter of fear and a flutter of doubt, but it is too late for those things because Brandon is already pushing her to her back, his mouth meeting hers in a steady tempo, so much more practiced than Petyr, so much more of a _man_ , and she feels almost childlike beneath his wide frame. She feels like a child playing at games when she reaches to unlace his breeches and grasp his cock, playing at revenge, but he lets out an appreciative groan at her touch that is all the same, and there is a sudden rush of power, she is inexperienced but perhaps he will remember the other copper-haired girl still when he takes his virgin bride to bed. 

She lies back and waits and tenses, a bit, she had curled her hand around him and he is larger than Petyr, his weight heavier against her and her leg begins to cramp, and she clutches to his back and instinctively digs her nails against his spine. He grunts his approval and moves harder, and she looks up and thinks then that he really is a beautiful creature, he moves like a wolf and looks like what the singers sing of; there is no awkward fumbling and pleasure drums between her thighs, but she finds herself waiting for that flutter in her chest that never comes. He is smart enough to pull back to keep from spilling his seed inside her (after all, her sister will still be his wife, tonight will not matter beyond the sunrise and yet Lysa will always know what she has done when she looks at Cat, what she took from her, and she does not know whether she should feel joy or despair at _I shall never forget this_ )

He pulls out of her and Lysa wonders why she suddenly feels hollow. 

Brandon pinches her side lightly and calls her sweetling, and Lysa realizes then, with a jolt, that he does not even know her name, that he never took note of her at all until she slipped into his chambers, she is, as always, her sister’s lesser shadow.

But at the very least, he knows enough to know that she is not Catelyn, and he does not call her such, and that, little as it is, is enough.


	3. anger is the enemy of instruction (Jaime/Catelyn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "Jaime/Catelyn, hate sex. Catelyn takes her anger about Ned's death out on Jaime."

She strikes him as soon as she enters, nails biting into his cheek; Cersei hits him with an open palm when he has vexed her (she’ll leave no mark that could separate them, make them different) but Catelyn Stark, he thinks, wants to draw blood. 

He allows it, does not flinch from the one - he has heard the bellows, after all, of those northmen who follow Robb Stark, now lord in truth, now king, they say, he knows of the sept of Baelor and Joffrey’s swift command and he did father the little beast, after all – the one, he can grant her. But when she raises her hand again, gathering her strength behind it, he catches her wrist tightly between his fingers, stilling it. Wildly she raises her left hand, and the chains that keep him tethered to his little slice of hell pull as he snatches that wrist, too, and he pulls roughly so that she falls to her knees, so that they are face to face. 

Her eyes are as cold as the breath that puffs in front of her, and he wonders, briefly, when she became so terribly _northern_ ; he remembers a girl from Riverrun who seemed to live her life in sunshine and summer but she is years and wars gone, and she grew into a fierce creature indeed. 

“Not that I don’t _long_ for the pleasure of your company, Lady Stark,” he says sarcastically, and he shakes her wrists so that his chains give a pleasant little jangle, like a fool’s bells, they think to keep him as a pet, as a trophy, but he will rip their throats out yet. “But if you’ve come to kill me, I would prefer you do so quickly, with a weapon more deadly than your palms.” 

“You deserve no better,” she hisses at him, struggling against his grip and he laughs, laughs at her, laughs at himself, laughs at the world gone mad, and madder still as she pulls against him, tries to pull free, tries to strike him again, and finally lunges forward to kiss him hard, teeth biting into his lip, and thus silences him. 

Her mouth is hot (some south to her still, he thinks) and her body is warm and he’s been freezing in this dank cell for so long that it is second nature to release her hands to grasp at her back, to pull apart her thighs, to yank her up and forward until she is straddling his lap, skirts and legs on either side of his own, and the heat of her is more welcome than any sad excuse for meat or mead that he’s been offered. 

She shivers and digs her nails against his thigh when he ungraciously pushes a hand up her skirts, pawing at her smallclothes to slide them enough down her legs to get a hand on her, and she is warm and wet there, too, and he laughs again until she growls and bites his tongue in her mouth. But her hands are at his breeches, one hand tugging at the laces, the other hand grasping his cock tightly (her hand is not much unlike Cersei’s, he thinks, angry, firm, powerful) through the material. 

There is no preamble, no delicate foreplay, he thrusts up into her as soon as she has him free. She cries out sharply, and he clamps a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound, but then he is the one yelping in surprise and pulling it away as she bites down hard on his finger. She’s broken the skin and he tastes the blood on her tongue as she kisses him again viciously, teeth continuing to tear at his bottom lip, and her hand finds its way to his throat, pressing, pressing.

“Go ahead,” he rasps, he does not grasp at her fingers to beg for freedom; instead he wraps his arm around her hips, digging his nails into her side to leave a bruise as he cants his hips off the damp floor to drive his cock into her hard, giving a twist of his hips that he sees her bite her lip against. “Kill me. Explain that to your boy king.” 

She snarls at that even as she moves to meet his tempo, she is a wolf indeed, he thinks, and releases him, pushing hard so that his head slams back against the wall and stars explode behind his eyes for a moment. Furiously, instinctively, he grasps a handful of her long red hair, pulling it back to that the white line of her throat is exposed; he brushes his own teeth there, _how easy it would be_ , he thinks, for the lion to strike and bite ( _wolves, Lady Stark_ , he could tell her, _are not the only carnivores to fear_ ). 

Instead he moves his lips to her ear, filling it with hot breath as he whispers, “You think keeping me here means you’ve won, that your boy’s won, but this has only just begun. You’re all fools, and you’ll all die for it.” 

She grasps his chin, struggling against his grip on her hair so that she can meet his gaze, blue eyes so terrible and laced with fury. "No. Not a single one; I would kill you first.” And maybe it is the challenge, the threat, the promise of a battle, but he gives another thrust and comes inside her at that, groaning as he feels the dampness spread across both of their legs. 

Catelyn is gasping for breath then, gasping as though she is choking, and perhaps she is, on anger, on grief, and she pushes hard away from his chest until he releases his grip on her hip and hair, staggering to her feet on wobbling legs, reeling. She rests her hand heavily against the door as she pushes her skirts back down over her shaking thighs and for a moment he thinks she is going to cry (and it panics him, anger and fucking are familiar friends to him but a lady’s tears he cannot abide). But she is made of steelier stuff, it seems, and she breathes deeply through her nose and composes herself and stares at him as though she does not know who he is. 

He looks up at her, there is blood on her lips and he can taste the metallic tang in his own mouth, and a litany of terrible things he could say cross his mind, ( _do you think your beloved Ned enjoyed the show?; I do hope your family is being treated more courteously than you Starks have treated me; did you manage to fuck away your pain, my lady, if so I must learn your secret_ ) but instead he is silent – he lives for battle and bloodshed but not for torment, he has never been the sadistic sort. 

If there are words to be said, she cannot seem to find them either, and she turns as swiftly as she entered, the door closing heavily behind her and again all is dark and cold.


	4. promise me a crown (Cersei/Brandon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "Cersei/Brandon - You're no match for my brother."

The Stark boy claims her for dance after dance, and Cersei supposes he is handsome, in that brutish northern way (so unlike her golden-haired twin or slender, pale Prince Rhaegar and so not at all to her tastes). She accepts, allows him to twirl her in her red gown that sets off her hair (Lannister colors, of course), she enjoys feeling desirable, feeling Jaime’s eyes on her, jealous and suspicious (that will teach him, to make japes with some common court girl from Dorne), imagining the prince’s eyes must be upon her also – how can they not be, when she shines so brightly? 

Brandon Stark certainly has his eyes on her, and he dances well and tall, and he proclaims, as he spins her and catches her in his arms, that tomorrow he will crown her as his Queen of Love and Beauty when he wins the tournament, for she is the fairest maid in the court and she was borne to wear roses upon her hair always. 

(Cersei notes that he does not ask for her favor, and wonders how many other girls he made a similar declaration to, if by some mishap Brandon somehow does win how many eager eyes will be on him, awaiting their crowning.)

She snorts in derision at his declaration but clings to his arms ever tighter, dizzy from the wine at dinner and the way he twirls her about. “How kind, my lord, but there is no way you will win tomorrow. The day belongs to my brother, Jaime Lannister.” 

(Jaime has promised to crown her, too, and despite her display tonight she knows he will do so. The crowd will ooh and ahh at the perfect matched pair of them, a brother paying tribute to his sister; even the ladies who moon over Jaime, who Cersei would like to wrap her fingers around and choke, would see no reason to be jealous or suspicious.) 

Brandon’s eyes flash briefly; he is obviously unused to being challenged, and he looks confused, and angry, and then lustful and intrigued. He grins at her. “Is that so, my lady?” He catches her again, holds her close, and takes a step forward and then another, until Cersei feels the rough-hewn stone wall against her back and realizes that Brandon has danced her into an alcove. 

He crowds into her, leaning down to whisper against her ear, “And how would you know that, my lady? Have you ever seen me in the field?” 

She smirks, “I don’t need to. I have seen my brother.” 

And he laughs at that, calls her a saucy maid, and kisses her, and his amusement is almost enough to make her like him, almost. She feels the hard press of his cock against her belly, and with a flash of inspiration, she reaches for the laces of his breeches to tug them free, slipping her hand inside to cup him curiously. Brandon groans at the sensation, one hand going to her hip, the other hand bracing himself against the wall as she wraps her fingers around the length of him, adjusting to the feel of him in her palm - Jaime’s is the only she’s touched before now. 

He is thicker than Jaime ( _small wonder he is so proud, then, doesn’t it all come down to the size of their cocks?_ ) but she frowns at the unfamiliar shape in her hand, moving her fingers along it as though to examine it. Brandon’s breath comes harsh as she explores, and he juts his hips forward against her grasp, as she slides her hand up and back. 

He reaches for the hem of her gown, and Cersei growls at the back of her throat and slaps his hand away, giving his cock a tug of warning, and he gives a mangled gasp at the back of his throat, and keeps his hands still, contenting himself to roll his hips to match her motions. 

It does not take long for him to come, his seed spilling over her fingers, and Cersei wrinkles her nose, _Jaime never spilled on me_ , withdrawing her hand, and Brandon’s Stark grey eyes are dark, and wanting. 

Cersei gives her sweetest smile, sees him lick his dry lips at the sight. “As I said,” she reminds him, “you are no match for my brother."


	5. we are the ones who will never be broken (Ned/Catelyn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "Ned/Catelyn, battle scars. They compare scars - Ned from war, Catelyn from childbirth."

It is when they are in bed together that Catelyn is most often reminded that her husband is a soldier. It is a curious thing, she thinks – she watches him rule over the north with a firm (though fair) hand, has seen him off to deliver justice with his greatsword, but it is when he is naked and close that she most sees what he is, that she sees the traces of war left on his body. 

He pulls her over on top of him, to straddle his hips, and she rests her hands on his chest for balance. Her finger presses against a healed groove below his collarbone, long and narrow. She does not know the story of this one; there are some he speaks of (the starburst puckered scar above his elbow, where an arrow struck, he tells ruefully how Robert had yanked it out almost before Ned had realized it was there, and how a moment’s breath later he was back in the fray, because what other choice is there?) but others he does not, nights too cold and damp with too many good men fallen and dead. 

It is the ones that he will not speak of, his eyes darkening in memory, that cause her unease, the reminder that despite the songs and stories and Robert Baratheon’s lust for the fight, battle is no game. And the space between Ned coming home with a scar on his chest and the king sending her bones and condolences seems very small, then, and she reminds herself to breathe. 

Ned’s hands have stalled on her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts, he is half hard between her legs but he notices her sudden stillness, her hands tracing a map between the scars that mar him. “Cat?”

She reaches to take his hands from where they rest on her body, their fingers intertwining – even on their wedding night his hands were calloused, the skin rough like worn leather, but after each war he came home with new marks on his body and stories behind them. 

“I was just thinking,” she says, and her eyes trail over a red scar on his shoulder ( _another inch or two and it would have been his head!_ Robert had roared, laughing, his face red from drink and Catelyn had swallowed hard; somehow the humor was lost on her). “How marked by battle you are.” 

He raises his eyebrows, “As are you, my love.” She frowns and furrows her brow, puzzled, and he pushes up from the bed, putting his arms around her and ducking his head to press his lips to her stomach, to run his tongue along the lines that remain. She knows which child gave her which – Robb’s are soft and silver, Bran’s still a light pink. Arya gave her the most marks upon her stomach and breasts, but it was after Sansa that she noticed the little rounding that remained under her belly button. 

She had been embarrassed, shy about the changes in her body when her new husband had returned from war, still a stranger to her, but they do not bother her terribly now. They are the reminders of her babes, what they left behind, and Ned has never seemed to mind, has always touched her as though she were beautiful to him. But she smiles ruefully as he moves his mouth to her breast, brushing against the lines there, from when they were swollen and full of milk. “It is not the same,” she says. 

“Isn’t it?” Ned lifts his head now to look at her, grey eyes serious. “Just a war of another sort.” 

She thinks then, briefly, of her mother, of the babe and birth that took her, of the scent of blood heavy in the room. It is a thought she tries to keep far from her when her labor pains begin; she thinks instead, of the blessing to come, the new daughter or son soon to be in her arms rather than her belly. But it is always there lingering on the edges, if only in her utter grit and determination to _not_ die, to not leave her children as she was once left. And perhaps that is what her husband thinks, on the battlefield, perhaps that _is_ the space between death and a scar; and perhaps there is really only an inch or two for her, as well, between a healthy newborn and easy birth and blood and blood and too much blood. 

Her lips quirk up and she puts an arm around his neck, her other hand slipping between their bodies to wrap around his cock, stroking him. “Am I a soldier as well, then?” 

Ned chuckles, the sound throaty with arousal, “My lady, Balon Greyjoy is blessed that you were not in the field.”


	6. we'd share each other like an island (Ned/Catelyn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "Cat/Ned, possessive Ned. One night they are feasting one of Ned's bannermen and Ned doesn't like the way that the men are leering at Cat, so when a slightly drunk Ned and Cat head up to bed, Ned is possessive and wants to remind himself that Cat is his."

It is an easy piece of courtesy, he knows, empty flattery meant to please them both. Rickard Karstark has made no secret of his desire to see his daughter Alys betrothed to Robb, and despite Ned’s insistence that his son is too young yet to be thinking of such things, Karstark continues to pile the compliments high. Robb is strong and valiant with his practice sword, he says (and Ned hopes that it shall be a long time yet that his son will have to prove such strength and valor); he lavishes praise on Sansa’s sewing until her cheeks grow pink; he raves upon Arya’s charm (he sees his youngest looks bewildered and he stifles a laugh, ‘spirited,’ yes, and he loves her fiercely but his little daughter’s ‘charm’ is often not remarked upon); and he remarks upon Catelyn’s beauty and grace and begs for a dance. 

Ned has little patience for empty words with hidden meaning, and he knows they come easily because while exaggerated there is underlying truth – Robb is eager and brave; Sansa is delicate, a little lady; Arya is lovable in her wildness; and Cat is a beautiful woman. Karstark’s words wash over him like a summer snow he brushes from his shoulders, but nor do they bother him. 

The way that Karstark’s men watch Ned’s wife as she dances, skirts and hair swirling – that is what bothers him, and the snickers and whispers he is not meant to hear, about his pretty southron lady, who deserves more than Eddard Stark’s frozen cock to warm her bed (and you know what they say about girls from the south, all wanton creatures, what a sad waste on someone like him). 

(He cannot help but think that they would not say such things of Brandon; Brandon’s reputation preceded him amongst the Stark bannermen, and cold is something that could never be said of him.)

There is ice in his eyes as he surveys the room, drawing his cup of wine to his lips, but Karstark’s men do not notice – of course they do not, they are too busy watching her, as though she were a piece of choice meat to be devoured, easy prey – or if they do they think it no different than his usual demeanor. Cat finishes the dance, oblivious to the eyes that follow her hungrily, and comes to join him back on the dais. Her cheeks are flushed from the wine and the dancing and she smiles as she sits beside him, and it is no wonder, he thinks, that they desire her. 

What he hates is that they feel they can so freely show it, as their guests bid the lord (glowering) and lady (unnoticing) goodnight and the hall slowly empties, that they speak of her thus, that they think he does not want her and therefore he would not mind that they do. 

He is quiet as she slips her hand through his arm, stewing in anger not helped by drink, and he holds her tight there as they climb the winding rough-hewn stairs on feet somewhat less steady than normal. She slides her hand from the crook of his arm into his palm, lacing her fingers through his and giving him a sly smile and a small tug as they reach her rooms; the flush of wine leaves her amorous and he follows silently, imagining eyes following him as he does so (poor girl, they laughed at her, at him). 

“Unlace me?” she requests once the door is closed and he has removed his tunic, her voice a low timbre as she turns her back to him, copper hair gleaming against pale shoulders, and he gathers it in his hands to move it, enjoying the feel of it heavy and smooth between his fingers. He reaches for the laces of her gown, thinking of the movement of her dress with the sway of her hips, of the eyes that had watched her greedily, the men who had probably imagined themselves where he stands now ( _icy Eddard Stark_ , he thinks), and suddenly he is yanking at the laces, mindless if one broke or not, suddenly he is desperate to put his hands on her skin. 

The gown pools at her feet and she concentrates on stepping out of it while he already has the hem of her shift in his hands, drawing it over her head. She laughs against his lips at his earnestness after she turns and he pulls her flush to him, but the laugh turns into a moan in her throat as he tears his mouth from hers to kiss her jaw, her neck, the curve of her shoulder, down to her breast to draw her nipple in his mouth.

Cat lets out a soft whimper, hands grasping at the back of his shirt, but she cannot manage from her position to do anything more than gather it in her hands. He kneels now, moving his mouth lower still, over the flat plane of her stomach, brushing with his tongue the soft silver lines on it, marks from their children. 

He puts his hands on her hips, feeling the tremor of her thighs, the tremble under his grip, and he feels a rush of something that tastes like victory; poor lady, they had said, so wasted on him, but those men do not know the way Cat likes to be touched as he knows, movements with hands and lips to bring her undone (Brandon did not, would not, either), they do not know her and they do not know him. 

She is already slick when he puts his mouth between her legs, and she cries out sharply at the sensation, knees starting to buckle and hands twisting through his hair. He holds her steady with strong hands on her hipbones while he drags his tongue along her entrance, up to flick briefly over her clit before pressing inside her. 

Cat gives a whine of protest as he pulls back before she finishes, but meets him eagerly when he kisses her with the taste of her still on his tongue. He slides his hands under her bottom to lift her up, to carry her over to the bed, to deposit her there so he can finally undress, his cock aching as he unlaces his breeches and she watches him with lust in her eyes (it’s been a long time since their bedding has been merely _dutiful_ , but it is nights like tonight, men like those he feasted, that he remembers their wedding night, taking a girl meant to be his brother’s to bed, seeing the trepidation in her eyes). 

He barely has time to join her on the bed before Cat is climbing into his lap, and he moans sharply into her neck at the feeling of her warm and wet and ready against him, at the way she breathes _'please'_ in his ear. Her hands try and push him to the bed but he resists, flipping her instead to her back, and she yields easily, legs wrapping around his waist, hips eager and pushing up against him. He thrusts with an easy, familiar stroke and she cries out, head tilted back and hair wild and everywhere on the pillow. 

He knows he has no reason and no right to doubt her, he who brought a boy home and called him ‘son’, he knows Catelyn is his alone (not his brother’s, nor anyone else’s no matter how they may stare…). But there is never a time she feels more so than when she is clinging to him with his cock inside her, her hands at his back, her hips arching off the bed to meet him, her mouth seeking his with his name on her lips, and he swallows her gasps of pleasure that match the tempo he sets. 

He grips her thigh with one hand, hiking it higher along his back, slipping his other hand between their bodies to stroke her, matching his fingers to the thrust of his hips and to the movement of his mouth on her throat, drawing the skin there between his lips. Her nails dig against his shoulder blades and he smiles into her neck at that, the thought of the marks she will leave, where no one will see but he will know ( _you are mine and I am yours_ ). And suddenly she is coming hard, moaning desperately, and the feel of her clenching around him is enough to draw him to the edge, tensing and letting out a low groan as he spills his seed and Cat shudders, her limbs tightening around him. 

Ned smiles down at her as he gently pulls back and out of her, her body damp with sweat and limp with exhaustion, her lips parted as she gasps for breath and her neck red from his mouth, and he kisses her softly now, her hand curling around the nape of his neck. ( _I wonder if he tells her to lie back and think of Winterfell_ , one man had jested.) He rolls to his side, drawing Catelyn against him, and she curls to the shape of his body, her arm draped across his chest. 

“Are you feeling better?” she murmurs against his shoulder and he starts in surprise. She smiles at him teasingly. “Something must have happened at dinner to set such a scowl to your face.” 

He laughs, somehow it does not seem to matter anymore with her body warm and naked, pressed to his, (his alone, he thinks, and pulls her closer) and he kisses her temple. “Yes,” he agrees, “I am."


	7. all around me are familiar faces (Jaime/Sansa(/Catelyn))

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "Jaime/Sansa/(Catelyn): When he lies with Sansa for the first time, Jaime worries that he won't be able to stop thinking of Cersei. But he finds himself thinking of another woman instead."

He is at first surprised at the changes in her. 

Somehow, Sansa Stark stood still in his mind as the world changed and time marched forward – the child in King’s Landing with dreams in her eyes and an optimism dangerous in a cruel world (he should have known that that optimism would have either been killed or gotten her killed, and as here she is, he should have known which had happened), a ‘little bird’ she was called and nothing was truly a better fit for her. And yet they find no frightened girl at the Vale but a woman with blood on her hands and secrets in her mouth, and they do not rescue her as much as serve as her guard as she decides to depart. 

She is utterly changed, this is no sad and sorry princess from a song waiting for her knights, and he thinks that is appropriate, when the two brave knights have three hands and one cock between them (the illusion is ruined, anyway). 

And so he is not completely thrown when the flap of his tent opens just a crack and a tall, slim figure (far too slim to be Brienne) cloaked in shadows slips inside (and yet he starts a bit in surprise when he feels her hand, smooth and small, press on his chest). Instead he wonders, as she shrugs off her cloak and slides down next to him on his narrow cot, clothed in just her shift, exactly what sort of education she had received at the Vale. 

Her pale skin glows in the moonlight that seeps through the tent, and she smiles shyly (she plays the part well, he thinks, and it disconcerts him), but he can tell by the way she trails her hand along his chest, the heat radiating through his night clothes, reaching down to cup him through his breeches that she is no maid; her touch is too practiced. And it is no wonder, really – twice wed, once widowed, and those whispers he had heard of Littlefinger and his protégé (and how sudden his death, but no wonder, he had so many enemies…), and Jaime is hardly one to judge in cases of pleasures of the flesh. He inhales sharply through his teeth, giving her a steely glare as she grants him a sweet, innocent smile at the feel of him hardening beneath her fingers. 

She has learned the weapons to bring men to their knees, to swear them to her (as though he is not sworn already, a solemn promise he made at sword point), to win their hearts and souls, but he is no Petyr Baelish, sneaking and plotting, whispering in corners and still a romantic at heart. He is a Kingsguard, a Kingslayer, and he will be no girl’s plaything. She may have had men before wrapped in her web with a sly touch and a wanting smile, but she is toying now with a lion of the Rock, and lions have a tendency to tear to shreds those that seek to tease them. And yet when he pushes up from the cot to grasp her upper arms, one hand flesh and tight, one hand golden and unyielding, he feels a flicker of uncertainty in the pit of his stomach – it may be, he realizes with a jolt, that Sansa Stark is more experienced than he. 

He has only ever touched Cersei ( _she’s been fucking Lancel and Kettleblack and Moon Boy for all I know…_ ), thought his hands were created solely for Cersei’s body (and he has lost one, now, anyway), has never lain with another woman, and Sansa’s hips feel different under his hands as he moves to grasp her there. He does not know how to be with another woman, how to desire another woman, and he feels she will sense his uncertainty and think she has won. 

She unlaces him now (and her fingers do not tremble, she is not that flawless a player yet, he thinks), to pull him free and stroke along his length with a steady hand, and he groans, gripping tightly onto her fair skin (he will bruise her, he thinks, and he is pleased at that). She is almost otherworldly beautiful, straddling his hips, arching her back at his touch, a creature not quite human. Her eyes are on his face when she reaches to pull her shift over her head, leaving her naked and lovely on his lap, a gift for the taking, and instinctively he reaches to cup her breast with his good hand, firm in his grasp.

He tries to gain control, keeps his face stoic even as her eyes say his body betrays him, and he grips her hips again to flip her to her back, auburn hair scattered against the whiteness of the cot, eyes gleaming in the dim moonlight as he climbs between her legs. Her hand moves to the back of his neck, drawing him in, and he nips at her throat with mouth and teeth, mindless of who will see the marks he leaves, determined that she shall dress in the morning and see what he has left behind and know that _he_ has the power, here. 

He finds his mind does not stray to his golden sister, as he had feared, when he looks at Sansa beneath him. There is not much of Cersei to her, after all, Cersei with her fair hair and emerald eyes (who would rarely deign to let him flip her to her back, as Sansa had so willingly done). 

No, in the moonlight with her head of rich red hair tossed back, Sansa looks nothing like Cersei but looks like Catelyn Stark and Jaime is caught off guard at the sudden surge of arousal that thought brings, and he grips her slim pale thigh, letting out a stuttered moan at the unexpected throb in his cock. 

Suddenly he is back in a cold dank dungeon, raging and captive but whole and his anger had fed him until he was full. And there is a woman with wine and demands and then a sword at his throat and he can remember even now the promises she pulled from wrought lips, words he told himself he did not have to keep (and knew, even then, that he would, because there is still a part of him that longs for honor and kept promises and the glory that was supposed to come with knighthood). 

And he had hated her, had hated all those damnable northerners, had planned to cut them all down as soon as he was free. But at that moment he had just wanted to fuck her raw (until they both felt something, anything besides rage, again), and it had been the first moment he had ever _wanted_ anyone that was not Cersei, however twisted it may be, and it stays there, at the back of his mind, and he tries to keep his promises (he never seems to quite succeed, he thinks). 

Beneath his grasp Sansa inhales sharply and he realizes he is pinning her wrists hard to the cot, trapping her beneath him, but her eyes are not afraid as she gazes up at him, merely gauging. He wonders if his thoughts are written so clearly on his face, and he kisses her, his mouth rough on hers, his fingers pinching at her skin, at her nipple, twisting it sharply so that she cries out, and he wonders if she is used to such rough care or to only practiced hands and a tender, adoring touch. He pushes his hand between her legs and finds her wet, traitorously so as he drags his fingers along her, and wonders if that is something new, too, or merely something else she has perfected since he has seen her last. 

Sansa moans throatily at his touch, her hand squeezing his cock gently, guiding it to her entrance. “It’s all right,” she whispers against his ear, and he shudders at the warm gust of breath, curling his fingers against her hips. “I know you want to.” ( _Slip off your gown,_ he had said, and it had been more mock than challenge but he had been hard anyway and his mind had briefly wandered to what the sight would be if she did.) 

He thrusts into her and she closes her eyes and gasps at the sensation, pert pink mouth gaping open, panting for breath as he holds her legs wide apart, one hand grasping and the golden one resting heavily against her warm skin. Using his weight against her, he pushes her legs up against her chest so he can thrust deep, with hard strokes, and she lets out a strangled, pleased cry and Jaime thinks _perhaps I have finally caught her by surprise._

She moves her arms to embrace him, to reach up to him and pull him to her, and he pulls back, out of her reach, and uses his golden hand to anchor her to the cot. He watches her instead, hikes her thigh higher still with his free hand, and thinks of promises kept and promises broken as he pushes his hips flush to hers. She cries out in pleasure under him, no pain or blood and his suspicions are confirmed ( _this is no shy maid_ ) and yet he finds himself harder still at the thought. _It is the drink_ , he thinks, the wine, he had indulged in another cup at dinner. It is that and the shadows in his tent that dance across her face as she moves against him, tilts her head, arches her hips, and it turns her into Catelyn and back to Sansa, _Catelyn Sansa Catelyn Sansa_ until he is not entirely sure which woman is writhing beneath him as his movements become more irregular, more jerking, only that is most certainly not Cersei. 

(Only that he wants to, and that he is sorry.)

Her thigh is red from his grip when he comes inside her and he releases her, pulling back, reeling slightly as he rolls to his back. She sighs and smiles and curls against his side ( _as she’s been taught to do, a studious pupil,_ he thinks bitterly), and when she looks up at him with an arm across his chest he realizes there is nothing much of Catelyn Stark in her eyes. The same color of Tully blue, yes, and just as wide and lovely, but the late lady of Winterfell was so terribly easy to _read_ , he thinks, anger and grief and determination; even when she held the blade to his throat he had known he would not die that night, he could see it by looking at her. 

Sansa Stark’s eyes are so carefully blank, as expansive as the morning sky, and he sees nothing in them at all – she is a labyrinth of secrets. 

_Good,_ Jaime thinks then, and closes his eyes, exhausted, _perhaps she shall live longer, in that case._


	8. shifting ground (Ned/Catelyn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "The first time they have sex that is not out of duty."

She comes to his bed a dutiful bride when he is nothing but a stranger to her, this solemn-faced northman that she is sent to wed and bed, and suddenly she is Lady Stark and she will do her duty, and what is expected of her. 

But he is gentle, at least, and considerate, and after the first few strained times there is a pleasure to be found in their coupling (they are both young and eager, after all). And then there is a war that he leaves for, a child she bears (another child he brings home, that she does not think upon, will not think upon), and when the dust settles and they begin to build a life and home in Winterfell, she thinks that she is content, that her husband is kind and her child is healthy and there is the promise of more when he takes her to bed, and she does her duty, and surely, she thinks, this is enough (surely, she assumes, this is all that this shall be). 

She isn’t sure when the shift starts, in what they are (to all they will be), only that it happens and that she is suddenly keenly aware of it. 

She watches him with their son and she watches him (and she helps, in her quiet way) rule a land so seemingly hostile and barren, and suddenly it matters, that it is him beneath her hands and mouth, not just her husband but a man good and just and honorable; solemn, yes, but there is warmth to him, that she finds in his lips when he kisses her back, in his hands when he pulls apart her dressing gown. And she finds that she wants him in a way more raw than she has ever known before, not for what he can give or the rights that she has, but because she desires him, here, in her bed, here, in her home and arms.

Her stomach is starting to round with her second pregnancy, they have made another child that grows strong inside her, and there is no tangible or dutiful reason for her to go to his bed, or for him to come to hers. Except that she wants to, and she finds a thrill and relief in his earnest touch, his mouth hot and eager against her throat and his cock hard against her thigh, that he wants to (wants her), as well. 

She watches him for a long time after she feels her world and what she has expected move under her (in a good way, she thinks, a wonderful way, but still the change unbalances her), her cheek pressed to his shoulder, his hand at her shoulder blades, thumb brushing a lock of hair. She wonders when their embrace became so comfortable, when they learned to fit. She studies his face, as though she may find the answers there, the pieces of him that she has grown to love and want, what has spilled over from duty and grown into something more. 

Ned furrows his brow to see her stare, and his hand stills on her back, his voice laced with mild concern. “Are you well?” 

She is more than well, she is more than content, and suddenly it is more than enough (it is almost too much, at that moment). The words are too raw in her chest to yet say, but _soon_ , she thinks, and she presses closer to him and smiles. 

“Yes,” Catelyn answers, and closes her eyes as his grip tightens slightly to accommodate her movement, his lips brushing her hair (they have learned to fit). “I am well.”


	9. phantom shadows on the floor (Ned/Catelyn, (Ashara))

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "The first time Catelyn lies with her husband and doesn't think of Ashara Dayne."

It would be easier, she thinks, if Ashara Dayne were still alive. 

The end would be the same, she knows – her husband holds himself to a rigid standard of honor, and he is not one who would abandon his wife and newborn son for a woman of the court, no matter how beautiful and bewitching, no matter if she bore him a boy as well, no matter if he had wished to or not. And so they would still be here, but at least then she would know that she was chosen, perhaps reluctantly, perhaps regretfully, but _chosen_ , instead of simply being what remained behind when the ashes of war had settled. There is no choice to be made – she is all that there is. 

But Ashara Dayne is dead; hers is a tragic story, a lovely and heartbreaking story, a tale that songs are made of, to be remembered through the ages, and Catelyn Stark knows that she will never be as beautiful, as mysterious, as unattainable, by simple virtue that she is _alive_. The briefest lives burn the brightest, and with her beautiful horrible end, Lady Ashara has elevated herself to a place that a mere mortal could never hope to reach, and Catelyn is left grasping at air and covering her ears at the tales she hears spun, a love story gone awry (and she is the odd one out, the intruder, she thinks). 

She did not think it would bother her so, when she arrived at Riverrun with Robb clutched in her arms to find another babe already in the household, when Ned told her he would be staying, when she dared to ask who his mother was (and it must be Lady Ashara, why else would he have been so angry?) – she swallowed hard and tells herself _family duty honor_ and waits for the anger to abate. And it does, somewhat, at least at her husband, but it is replaced by something heavier and rawer as he becomes not such a stranger to her. 

As she grows to know him, grows to think she may love him, she finds that anger and embarrassment shifts to pain and sorrow, a hollowness when she thinks of Lady Ashara throwing herself into the sea and perhaps taking a piece of her husband with her, a piece that Catelyn may never have (but _wants_ , so badly, as she wants all the pieces to make him wholly her own). 

She hands him her heart and feels rewarded with fragments that bite her skin and leave her bloody.

The shadows and shades follow her to her marriage bed, and she feels them there when she straddles Ned’s hips to take him inside her and he shudders beneath her hands, and she wonders how she compares. It is no true fault of his, the ghost in their room; there is no coldness to him in their bedchamber, and if ever he breathes a name against her skin when he comes, it is always her own. But when she lies next to him afterwards and he winds her hair through his fingers where the locks shine like copper rings, she thinks of hair darker than the night sky over Winterfell and wonders if he longs for something (someone) different, if he resents Brandon for dying and leaving him without a choice and with a bride he did not know. 

He never speaks Ashara’s name but the boy he brought home is always besides Robb, as close as twins as they take their first steps together, one dark and one bright. Catelyn tries to not choke on the smoke fingers that wrap around her, a second wife vying for attention and position, the woman whose name does not need to spoken for her presence to be felt. She is a silent, invisible rival, and Catelyn fears that she shall never be free of her, that in killing herself Ashara made herself immortal.

But she presses on, presses down the resentment and sorrow, and she hopes that one day, what she does have will be enough, her husband’s respect and duty and affections (and if she craves his love, surely, surely there is a piece there for her even if she shall never have it all). Robb toddles on unsteady feet when she misses first one moon’s blood and then another, and she remembers the last time, sending a rider to bear the news to her lord husband, watching her body grow and change as she wondered if he would ever see his child. It had been an odd limbo, sitting by the rivers and feeling still a girl while her belly grew great, laboring with only her sister and the midwife and maester to offer her comfort, and this time, she thinks, will be different. 

This time, she waits until they retire to her rooms. She stands in just her shift in front of where he sits on the bed and presses his hand to her stomach, still flat, and tells him that she is with child. 

Her breath catches in her throat at the change on his face – smiles are rare on Ned Stark’s serious visage and this one is bright and bold as a summer southron sun. She feels her own lips curl up in response and she leans forward to kiss him, to taste happiness on the curve of his mouth (because of her, because of the news _she_ bears, and there is a _thrill_ to that, a satisfaction to her core), her hand resting against the side of his neck. His fingers curl around the thin material of her shift, tugging her closer and she yields easily, climbing onto the bed to straddle his thighs, legs on either side of his own and shift riding up as she settles into his lap, arms wrapping around his neck. 

Ned rests a hand at the nape of her neck, thumb stroking the tender skin below her ear, while the other rests on her stomach, his gaze upon it, as though it were already round and heavy, as though they could already feel the babe’s movements through her skin. _He will be able to, this time,_ she realizes, and she kisses the corner of his mouth. 

“And you are well?” he asks, glancing up at her now and sliding his hand from her neck to cup her cheek.

She turns her face to kiss his palm – the skin there is rough from warfare and battle but she has learned to desire his touch. “Yes. It is early yet.” 

He smiles again, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and she has to kiss him again, his mouth opening against hers so that his tongue can brush her own, and she threads her fingers through the hair at the back of his head. Ned’s hands grip her hips, and she lets out a murmur of surprise as he shifts, turning her so that he can press her to her back on the bed, climbing over her but pulling back from her mouth to look down at her. 

“It is the best news you could give me, my lady,” he says with raw honesty, and she bites her lip at that, looking up at him and seeing the man, barely more than a boy and yet older than his years, who had lost nearly his entire family and hoped to build another. And they are young, and it is summer yet, and there is no reason to not think that the future lies ahead of them, ripe for the taking. 

She lifts her hips and shoulders from the bed so he can pull her shift off before kissing her stomach tenderly, up to the underside of her breast, over her nipple to roll it between his lips. She tries to sit up, to reach for his breeches as he begins to suck, but his hands hold her heavy and firm to the bed as he moves his mouth over her body, his breath hot against her skin. 

“Ned…” she starts, but his name catches in her throat as he slides a hand down her body, fingers brushing teasingly over the inside of her thigh, and she tries to lift and roll her hips towards him, to get his hand where she _wants_. He chuckles, his mouth still on her breast so that the sound vibrates through her body and she moans in pleasure when he obliges, his fingertips sliding easily over the dampness that he finds there, his thumb tracing circles over her nub.

She inhales sharply and pushes his hand away, pushing up against his weight from the bed to reach for the laces of his breeches, to pull him free and wrap a greedy hand around his cock, thumb brushing over the tip. He groans at the sensation, moving his mouth to nip at her neck with lips and teeth, his hand knotting in her hair at the back of her head. 

Catelyn hooks her heels over his back, and he pulls one leg up higher, ducking down to press a kiss against her knee before he slides into her, and she moans at the familiar sensation of him filling her. He keeps hold of her knee as he thrusts slowly, and she huffs impatiently through her lips, arching her back and canting her hips up until he quickens to match her pace. She digs her nails against his back, arms and legs wrapped around him as he moves, and she is amazed at the quietness of the evening, at how clearly she can hear each throaty moan against her ear, a sound that sends a throb of pleasure down her spine and between her legs. 

He pants her name against her shoulder as his movements become more irregular, more urgent, and suddenly his hand is plunging back between their bodies, rolling her nub between his thumb and forefinger as he thrusts harder, and she shudders at the urgency of his movements. And then she is peaking, clenching him tightly as she shudders and gasps for air, the tremors racking through her body. 

Ned thrusts once more, twice, and the third brings him to his own finish, muffling a loud groan against the crook of her neck and she sighs shakily at the feel of his mouth there, warm and wet as he draws the skin between his lips. 

Slowly he slides from her, rolling off of her to lie next to her, and he leans over to kiss her forehead, her cheek, her jaw, and finally her mouth. Her heart is unusually full and at ease, and she sighs in contentment, resting her hand on his hip, her hair damp on her forehead. He strokes the strands lightly, pushing them off her face. 

“Your hair is beautiful,” he tells her, and there is something wonderfully intimate in the way he says it, the way he touches her and looks at her, and she moves closer to him, lifting her head to rest it against his shoulder so that he curls an arm around her. “Beyond the Wall, red hair is considered lucky, you know. Kissed by fire, the wildlings say.” 

It is then she realizes that she had not thought of Ashara Dayne that night, _dark as the night sky over Winterfell_ , had not worried that her husband longed for another woman’s touch, did not doubt her own ability to please him. And even now, now that the thought has crept into her mind, it is grainy and unfocused, as though she is seeing it through a heavy rainstorm – it is far away, and of little consequence when he presses his lips to her temple, holding her close as his hand slides back down to rest large and warm against her belly. 

She is no Ashara Dayne, no legendary beauty or tragic heroine, and perhaps there are pieces of Ned she will never know and never have. But there are pieces of her husband that belong solely to her, pieces of her that belong solely to him, and it is enough to heal and grow. 

_Kissed by fire_ , she thinks, and she smiles – yes, she will burn, and they will grow, and live, and she would rather be kissed by fire than swallowed by the sea.


	10. Adjustments (Ned/Catelyn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "Ned/Catelyn, morning sex"

Mornings dawn cold in Winterfell. The weak sunshine of the North does nothing to abate the icy winds that gust through Catelyn’s open window, and she often wakes up shivering. It is one of the few things she and her husband have never found a balance to – at night he grumbles that her chambers are hotter than the sands of Dorne, and he throws open the windows, and in the morning she finds herself waking thinking herself outside the Wall itself.

Unbothered, Ned lies naked and sleeping on top of the furs and she presses close to his back, molding to his familiar shape as goosebumps rise on her arms. Despite the chill she loves seeing him this way, not cast in shadows from flickering candlelight, simply whole and human and her own in the flood of morning light, and she presses her face against the column of his neck, breathing in the scent of salt and the woods and _man._

She slides her arm around him, breasts pressed to his back, feeling the heat of his body that seems to so easily escape her own in the frigid north. Slowly she traces her fingers along his chest, fingers brushing over the coarse hair there and mouth pressing against his shoulder, and Ned murmurs slightly in his sleep. She nips him lightly under his jaw, over where she can feel his pulse beating, and she sees his face twitch but still he does not stir.

Catelyn trails her hand lower, over his stomach and down further. She isn’t sure if it’s her hand closing around his cock or her icy toes pushing between his ankles that makes him jump and wake with a start, that makes him mutter, “Gods, Cat,” under his breath as he realizes that she is the reason for his sudden awakening, his hand instinctively clasping over her wrist.

“You know I hate it when you leave the windows open all night,” she murmurs against his neck, giving a small tug to his cock, thumb brushing against the tip, and he groans in surprised response, his fingers tightening over her wrist as he begins to stiffen in her hand.

He pulls her hand away from him, tugging at her so that she falls into him, half on top of him, her leg pressing between his thighs. He grins at her, unapologetic. “Someday, my lady, you will get used to the northern mornings.”

She snorts in disbelief; it has been years past since she was a girl newly come from the south and she knows now that there are things she will never be accustomed to. But despite his teasing, the sight of his smile always warms her, and she leans down to kiss him, fingers brushing against his cheek as he pulls her over to straddle his hips, his large hands splayed on her thighs.

She shivers at the cold breeze at her back, moving her fingers to dance along his chest and tease at his nipples even as her own tighten almost uncomfortably. He notices, and if he thinks she will become accustomed he at least takes pity on her this morning and wraps his arms around her, pulling her down to rest against his chest, hands rubbing against the curve of her spine as he ducks his head to press open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone.

She rocks her hips and feels him twitch between her legs in response, and he moans against her shoulder, hands stilling to grip her firmly. One hand curves around her bottom, along the crease of her thigh, down between her legs, and she inhales sharply at the touch of his fingers there.

Ned raises an eyebrow at her, his fingers still teasing her as he rests his other hand on her hip, thumb tracing over the bone. “ _Cold_ does not seem to be a problem, Cat.”

She hits his chest lightly at that and keeps her hand there to push up and sink down onto him, shuddering at the sensation of the air on her body and him, hot inside her. He groans his approval, hands curling into her hips to help her move. At the cold gust of air at her back she shifts and he follows as she rolls to her back. She sighs her pleasure against his mouth as he adjusts before starting to move again, a hand gripping under her knee for leverage.

The feather bed is soft and yielding below her and Ned is warm and solid above her, and the morning seems much less harsh and brittle. There are things she shall never grow accustomed to in the frigid north, so far from Riverrun, but she makes her adjustments to bend them to her pleasure.


	11. the knight and the lady fair (Margaery/Brienne)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "Margaery/Brienne, When Loras visits Renly's tent, Margaery sneaks into Brienne's."

Her hand is on her dagger, her reflexes trained and razor-quick from necessity, as soon as she feels a cool touch on her stomach through her nightclothes. She raises the blade, poised to attack and defend herself when delicate, smooth fingers untouched by battle grasp her wrist, stilling her motion.

“I did not mean to startle you so,” comes the sweet clear voice of Queen Margaery, and Brienne blinks the sleep and confusion from her eyes, thinking to blink the lady away – but no, there she is, in her green gown and smelling of fresh flowers as she always does, and _something must be wrong, what is she doing here?_

Panic seizes her suddenly, she sits up, prepared for battle, already reaching across the hard thin cot for her armor. “What is it? The king? He is hurt? In danger?” Her fingers clutch at her rainbow cloak, her most precious possession, and she swears she shall not fail it (will not fail him, who looks at her with respect, and perhaps nothing more but even that is enough, is all she needs).

“The king is merely occupied,” the queen says, her voice dismissive, and she sits on Brienne’s cot and the lady knight raises her eyebrows, bewildered. “But quite safe from harm, I promise you. He is with my brother.”

Brienne eyes her with trepidation, Margaery Tyrell is her queen and she will serve her as truly as she serves her king, for his sake, for the sake of the kingdom they build, but she does not know this girl they call a golden rose, and does not know why she inches closer to Brienne, as though they were close as friends, close as sisters.

“I know that you love him,” her voice is soothing, _understanding,_ her wide brown eyes earnest and honest, and Brienne flushes, horribly embarrassed, is she truly as transparent as a pane of glass, is her devotion just another thing for her fellow knights and the ladies of the new court to make mock of? “But he shall never desire you, I’m afraid.”

And just as quickly, her flush of shame is a flush of anger, as though she needs this lithe little thing, all curves and beauty and softness, to tell her that she is undesirable, as though she does not know every moment, is not reminded every morning; _it does not matter_ , she tells herself fiercely as she has always done, _I have no aim to be desirable._

Brienne starts when Margaery’s hand covers her own, their fingers entangling, and her face is apologetic now as she realizes that she has caused offense, and Brienne bites her lip and wishes she were better at hiding what she thinks. “I only meant,” Queen Margaery adds, “that he shall never desire me, either.” 

Brienne blinks, shocked, her mouth instinctively falling open to deny it, for the king is always sweet and warm to his bride, and why should he not desire her, lovely creature that she is? And perhaps it is the gaze in Margaery’s eyes, but the answers strikes her like a lance from a horse, oh, and suddenly she cannot breathe. She sees handsome Renly and his most trusted Knight of Flowers, riding, confiding, _disappearing,_ and she is so lost in thought that she doesn’t realize that the queen has drawn their clasped hands beneath her skirts until Brienne feels her fingers press against Margaery, warm and slick and _hot._

“It is quite lonely, to be the odd one out in your marriage,” Margaery says, and she presses Brienne’s fingers more firmly to her center, pushing her hips forward. There is a shyness to her words that is belied by her sure movements as she adds, “Please, my lady ser – will you?”

Perhaps it is the shock of the moment (perhaps, she ponders briefly, she is dreaming), perhaps it is her duty, still, to her king and queen, but perhaps it is because no one has ever asked Brienne so honestly to touch them, but Brienne moves, curls her fingers inside Margaery, and feels an ache in her own cunt at the sound of the queen’s high-pitched, muffled sigh.

Slowly, she moves her long hand, adjusting to the pace of Margaery’s swaying hips, and Margaery’s small hands dance over her flat chest, pinching briefly at the nipples, before resting her palms on her shoulders, held tilted back so that her chestnut curls fall back over her slim shoulders. Her movements become more erratic, and Brienne steadies the smaller lady with her free hand, resting it uncertainly on her hip – she does not know how to do this, any of this, but the queen’s soft cries against a lip that she draws between her teeth is enough encouragement, and soon she feels Margaery clench against her fingers, and the queen parts her smooth lips to gasp, panting for night air.

Brienne wonders briefly, then, how King Renly does not desire her, and presses her thighs together firmly (she does her duty, to her king and queen and what they may need of her).

Margaery draws her hands up to Brienne’s cheeks, cupping her face and kissing her fully on the mouth, and the knight is still so stunned, that she can barely respond before the girl is pulling back and then rising, smoothing down her dress.

“Thank you, Ser Brienne,” Queen Margaery says, her lips pressing briefly again to Brienne’s own in a quiet goodbye, a kiss with a mouth both soft and sweet tasting, and Brienne thinks, as the flap of her tent closes once more, that it is the first time someone has actually wanted to kiss her and not done so to please her lord father.

 _A strange dream,_ she decides in the morning when the king and queen arise from the tent, and the Knight of the Flowers is nowhere to be seen and Queen Margaery’s eyes merely glance over her as they do every morning, unseeing. _A passing fancy._


	12. we carry these marks like banners (Ned/Catelyn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "Ned/Catelyn, a few months after the birth of Rickon, Cat is examining her body in the mirror, noticing all the changes of age and childbearing (breasts not as firm, belly not as taut, stretch marks etc) and not feeling very desirable. Ned shows her that to him she is still the most beautiful and desirable person in the world."

Catelyn is a practical person, too practical to be vain and give more than a cursory glance at the looking glass each day, and the way she is examining herself now is a rarer thing by far. She had been rubbing the balm given to her by one of her ladies into the marks still red and new on her stomach and she had found herself looking up, from time to time, to glance at her reflection, until she stands, until she moves before the looking glass, sliding from her small clothes until all is bared. And Catelyn is not vain, but nor is she completely immune to the sort of sorrow she feels at the changes the years have wrought on her.

Her belly is marred with the marks of her pregnancies – lines from Robb are silver and faded, glinting in the candlelight, and Rickon’s are fresh and bright still. The swell of her pregnancy is gone by now, but there is a bit of roundness under her navel that has refused to leave since she carried Sansa, and with each birth the skin feels a bit looser when the shape of the babe stretching it is gone. Her breasts are full and heavy and sit lower than they did the day she wed, and there are more lines there, too, from swelling with milk. She is not yet old, but the first bloom of youth and beauty is gone, the Maid replaced fully with the Mother. And she loves her children, would bear whatever they left behind for their sake, and yet she cannot help but frown at her reflection, hands skimming over her stomach and hips, remembering a girlhood in Riverrun where everything was smooth and flat and tight, and she had been young and lovely and worries had been few.

Unwelcome and unbidden, her mind wanders to a girl with dark hair and piercing violet eyes, a tragic death to a beauty fully flowered. _Ashara Dayne is forever young and beautiful, and I grow older each day._ It is a terrible thought, _she_ is always a terrible thought, and she feels petty for envying a dead girl, but she is merely human, and she feels it all the more keenly when she looks at herself and sees all the human imperfections reflected there.

The door creaks open and her head snaps to glance over at the source of the sound, but it is only Ned, coming to bed, and he stops short at the sight of her naked before the glass, surprised, his brow furrowing. “What are you doing?” he asks as he shuts the heavy door behind him, and she flushes, embarrassed, and fights an instinctive urge to cover herself. If the changes in her body over the last few years have been a secret she has kept from herself, they must be no secret to him, and again her mind wanders to the woman who came before, who bore a bastard with Ned’s grey eyes, and she drags her gaze away from his face, reaching instead for the salve.

“I was told it would help,” she says, holding it up. In the mirror she can see the corner of his mouth turn up in a smile as he approaches, reaches out to put a hand on her hip, thumb brushing against her stomach, and she feels a sudden stab of inadequacy and fights the urge to pull away.

“And does it?” he asks, his lips ghosting over her temple as his arm slides across her hips and stomach.

Her lips twist into a self-deprecating smirk, placing it back down. “We shall see. Although there is only so much that can be helped, at this point, it would seem.”

Ned frowns, confused, as his free hand comes up to rest against her neck, thumb resting on her jawbone, turning her face to his. “What do you mean by that?”

She glances briefly at the mirror again, her stomach partly obscured by Ned’s arm around her but otherwise there is no sudden shift or improvement, her displeasure had not simply been a trick of the light. She chuckles humorlessly, averting her eyes again. “It just seems there is more damage than anything in that little vial could cure.”

He lets out a bark of laughter at that, his arm tightening slightly, thumb rubbing a circle on the junction of her jaw. “I would hardly call you _damaged,_ Cat.” He kisses her on her neck, opposite the teasing motions of his fingers.

She sighs softly at the touch, her fingers curling around his wrist, but the unease gnaws in the pit of her stomach, and she thinks briefly of their wedding, of the nights spent together before he rode off to war. He had been a stranger, and they had been tentative and uncertain, but she had watched his face when he came into the bedchamber and saw her there for the first time, when she reached up and unpinned her hair so it fell over her shoulders in loose, long waves. He had gone off with Robert Baratheon and she had borne a son and she had never been that beautiful again, she thinks. Perhaps that girl, the bride from Riverrun, would have felt a match for Ashara Dayne (but perhaps not, it is said that she was the most beautiful woman in all the Seven Kingdoms, and Catelyn Tully had been a pretty girl but ‘pretty’ is easy enough to find).

She turns to him, prepared (or perhaps determined) to put the thought from her mind, to lock it away as she does all the unpleasant things she cannot change. Her hand goes to the back of his neck, pulling him down into a kiss, and he reciprocates warmly but his hands go to her hips, turning her so that her back is to him again, so that she is facing the looking glass once more, his hand cupping her jaw to keep her face to his.

“What are you doing?” she echoes his question as he moves his mouth to her cheek, her jaw, and her ear, drawing the lobe between his lips. One hand slides up her body to cup her breast, and she shivers at the sensation – she is always oversensitive when she has a nursing babe, and she feels the pressure of his fingers as he kneads gently all the more keenly.

“I want you to see,” he says, his voice hoarse against her ear and his breath hitting her in a warm, delicious gust. “How beautiful you are like this.”

She opens her mouth to laugh, to retort, but the words catch into a moan as Ned moves his mouth to her throat, nipping lightly at the junction of her neck and shoulder, his finger moving over her nipple and circling it slowly. She glances at the mirror briefly, at his hands on her body, and then closes her eyes instead, her head falling back resistless as he nibbles on her shoulder, his other hand tracing patterns on her stomach before dipping down between her legs, and she inhales sharply.

Ned pulls her back against his body as he dances his fingers against her, and she moans instinctively at the feeling of his cock pressing against the small of her back, through the rough material of his breeches. She reaches blindly behind her, her hand grasping his thigh before he moves his hand from her breast to catch her wrist, drawing her hand up to his mouth.

She lets out a growl of frustration as he evades her, and she turns to him again, lifting her face and pushing onto her toes to kiss him. He lets her this time, pulling her against his chest and letting his hands slide along the tender curve of her spine. “Wait,” he growls against her mouth when she reaches for the laces of his breeches and she tugs on his bottom lip in response, thinking it terribly unfair that he should stay so dressed when she is exposed to him, everything she is and all the flaws that she has.

He lifts her up, but to her surprise he does not carry her to the bed, but over to the desk across the room, set up for her letters should she need to send them, and he sets her there on the edge, and she realizes with a jolt of irritation and something headier that she can still see herself in the looking glass across from them (can see the unflattering bump her stomach makes when she sits) and she frowns.

Catelyn pushes her hands against his shoulders gently when he moves his mouth down to her collarbone, hands parting her thighs so that he can step between them and move close to her. “Ned…” she starts, and it is half doubt and half plea, and he kisses her lips again to catch the uncertainty there, a hand curling into her thick hair.

“Cat,” he counters, giving a light tug to her hair so that she looks up at him. His eyes are soft, and he runs a thumb across her lips. “There is nothing about you that is _damaged._ "

She sighs and squeezes his shoulders, relenting to the moment, her hands going to the front of his shirt. He catches her wrists again, nipping the tender skin of her thumb, and she is surprised at the shot of arousal that sends through her, her thighs tightening against his legs. “Later,” he tells her, and his voice is gravelly and low. “Let me.”

She nods, and her breath catches when he kisses her again, his tongue hot in her mouth, his hand wrapped in her hair. She moans in protest when he pulls away, turns his attention back to her neck, his hands now at her ribcage, thumbs stroking the sides of her breasts. He slides his mouth from her neck, moving down her body, between her breasts and down to her stomach, pressing against the raw lines left by Rickon first, tracing them with his tongue and then coming back for the others left by the children before, and she cannot help but let out a groan at the sensation.

He kneels in front of her and she lets out a yelp of surprise when he nips at her navel, hands curling beneath her legs. She barely recovers from that before he is pulling her knee over his shoulder, his beard scratching against the inside of her thigh before his mouth is upon her sex, his lips teasing at the outer folds. She gives a strangled cry at that, her hands instinctively going to his hair and gripping, her head falling back as he teases her, tongue darting down to push through her folds and stroke over her entrance.

It is when he slides his mouth up to her nub, taking it between his lips and beginning to suck that she notices once more her reflection in the looking glass, legs spread on the desk with Ned kneeling before her. There is something almost animal-like in the curve of her body as she pushes her hips up against his mouth, a sort of grace to her movement that strangely fascinates her, her heels dragging across his back.

She moans loudly as he pushes his fingers between her legs, sliding them inside her and curling them in tandem with the movement of his mouth, and there is something deliciously wanton and decadent about watching him please her in the mirror. The sight sends a shiver down her spine and she lifts her hips, leaning back on her elbows and she cries out when she comes hard, clamping down around his fingers, twisting upwards against him.

Ned pulls back, pressing kisses against the soft inside of her thigh, and the brush of his stubble is almost tickling and his mouth is damp from her arousal. “You are beautiful like this, too,” he murmurs against her skin, teeth scraping lightly at the tender skin and she feels a throb of pleasure between her thighs at his touch and his words, an aftershock of reaching her peak.

He stands and finally undresses, his eyes on her lying spent on the desk as she catches her breath, and she wraps her limbs around him when he climbs on top of her, supporting himself on his hands and knees on the rough, hard surface. She can no longer see the mirror as she lies back and she feels a stab of regret that makes her laugh, that she should miss what caused her such discomfort and ill ease earlier. The idea of watching him take her on the desk is so terribly tempting that she almost suggests they move it, but cannot quite give him the satisfaction of having won so handily.

He smiles at the expression on her face. “And like this,” he adds, and he leans down to kiss her, the taste of her own arousal sharp on his lips. She feels the brush of his cock between her legs and shivers, oversensitive, but instinctively lifts her hips to him, seeking him, her hands tight in his hair and mouth eager against his. He growls his approval and sinks into her, and she shudders at that familiar sensation, at how it feels as though each nerve ending is on fire from his ministrations. She relishes that she is allowed to touch now, moving her hands from his shoulders down to his chest, over his stomach and gripping his hips.

Ned pushes hard into her, and she feels her hips ground against the desk and thinks that she will have bruises in the morning, and he will as well, on his knees and elbows as they bear his weight.

More marks, more imperfections, and yet at that moment she cannot seem to remember why they matter, why they ever mattered.


	13. this kingdom, good riddance (Ned/Catelyn, Robert/Catelyn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "Ned/Cat, Cat/Robert - In an AU where Robert married Catelyn instead of Cersei, the queen still has an affair with a member of the Kingsguard and passes off his children as the king's."

Ned gives up everything for Robert, because Robert is his closest friend and now Robert is his king, and Robert asks him to. 

He holds the throne until Robert arrives in the capital, and then he bends the knee. When Jon Arryn tells him that Robert needs a queen and that Hoster Tully’s loyalty and service should be richly rewarded, he assents to breaking his betrothal to Hoster’s daughter Catelyn so that Robert may wed her instead. And when Robert tells him with his eyes still heavy with grief that he is needed in King’s Landing, to serve in court and in the Kingsguard, Ned gives Winterfell, the home he never thought to inherit, into Benjen’s keeping and dons a white cloak. 

He tells himself that he does not regret it, that it is nothing more than his most sacred duty and that there is great honor is serving in the Kingsguard, and for a few years, he nearly convinces himself. He stands guard while Robert’s grief eats him from the inside out, while he eats and drinks and whores to excess, listens as Robert relives battles long-gone and wonders that time never seems to move forward. The king lives in yesterday and while a great part of Ned loves him for remembering all that was lost, remembering Lyanna in his every breath, a greater part aches for the constant reminder. He will never forget his beautiful, brash sister; nor his brother or father, but he wants to live for more than their memory and the crown that Robert does not want. Serving the king, he thinks, would have more pleasure if the king had any intention of ruling the realm. 

He is sick with jealousy when Robert’s son is born. 

It takes him aback, but when he accompanies Robert to the queen’s rooms and she has a black-haired, blue-eyed boy in her arms, it is the first time he truly realizes that this is something he will never have and it makes his stomach churn. It is somehow made all the worse by the fact that the woman in the bed, offering the child up for Robert to take with a smile on her face, had been his betrothed before it was decided that she was better suited for a crown than the North. It could have so easily been his own son, he thinks, that Catelyn held. And then it would have been him reaching for the child, instead of standing by the king’s side as Robert does so and stares down at the boy with an almost confused expression on his face, as though it is not quite what he expected. 

The court toasts the birth of the prince, a healthy lusty boy named Robb for his father, and Robert joins in the festivities as well as he always has, laughing and drinking his courtiers under the table, groping a passing serving girl while his wife recovers in bed from the birth. It is only after the hall clears, and only the king remains with Ned, that his expression grows soured and troubled. 

“Sit,” he tells Ned. “Drink.” 

“I should not,” Ned replies – he alone remains keeping guard and he does not like to indulge in drink when on duty – he knows that Ser Barristan does not approve of such, and Ned tries to hold to that. 

“Drink,” he repeats, and so Ned sits and takes his cup because while he respects the Lord Commander, Robert is still the king, and if Ned is honest he misses calm moments like these, before there was a court and a kingdom, when they were simply friends and equals. 

They sit in silence together for a long moment, and Ned watches from the corner of his eye as Robert drains his cup like a man dying of thirst, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I never was meant to be a father,” he rasps. “Never wanted them, until I met your sister, and then I just wanted to make a litter on her.” 

Ned drums his fingers on the table, thinks of Catelyn cradling the small bundle to her, face alight, red hair damp and in a heavy plait over her shoulder. “The queen is a good woman,” he replies, and it is true. Catelyn is well-liked by the people, and why wouldn’t she be – a pretty, young woman from the Riverlands, with a gracious smile for the high-born and low-born alike. And in the thick of court, Ned knows it is she that sits in with Jon Arryn and the council while Robert is off hunting or whoring. _Jon made a wise choice when he told Robert to wed her_ , Ned thinks, and he wonders why it leaves him feeling sour.

“Aye,” Robert replies indifferently, and his eyes are as grieved as they were that first day when he looks over at Ned. “But Lyanna was the _best_ of women.”

Ned should be pleased, he tells himself, that his friend will forever love his sister most of all. He should be pleased that she is remembered and revered. He should not feel guilty, instead, for handing Catelyn Tully over to a marriage in which she would never quite measure up. 

\--

The envy is worse when the second child is born, a princess this time with hair as inky as her brother’s, and the queen names her Sansa. 

For the first child he thought only of what it would be to have a son of his own, a babe to hold in his arms. For this one, he thinks not only of having a daughter, a girl to spoil and adore, but of what it would be to have a wife who bore those children, who mothered them and loved them. 

If Catelyn is a good queen, she is a wonderful mother, and he watches her with a gnawing hunger in his stomach when she lulls the infant to sleep, holds Robb’s little hand as he takes increasingly confident steps. Motherhood makes her glow, brings her to full bloom, and while she continues to conference with Jon for the king cannot be bothered, there is no question that her true joy is in being with her children. She is never too royal to run with them, to laugh with them, to soothe their hurts – she is a mother first, and a queen second, he thinks. 

Passing thoughts from Robb’s birth turn into aching fantasies after Sansa’s – he imagines her in Winterfell, with _their_ children about them, little boys and girls with grey eyes and thick russet hair. He can see them so clearly at times, the children that never were and never will be, that he nearly forgets that he’s sworn to never wed a woman or be a father. He imagines taking his children to the godswood and taking his wife to the hot springs, and tries to recall the deep contentment of being _home._

It is so easy, at times, to forget that none of it is real. 

Sometimes he will sit with them, when his duties are to guard the queen and the royal children, will show little Robb how to hold his tiny wooden sword, so determined to impress his absent father with his merit and skills. The queen sits on the bench with a mere lady or two attending her, and holds her daughter, and he can feel her gaze upon his back. 

He wonders if she forgets at times, too, the way that things are, or if she even remembers that there was a time at which they were supposed to wed. 

\--

He wonders if it would have happened at all, if they had not gone to Winterfell. 

He is glad, in truth, when Robert announces that he wishes to tour the North, left untouched since the end of the war. It has been too long since he has been home (but it is not his home anymore, he reminds himself), too long since he has seen Benjen’s smile, sat in the godswood beneath the heart tree. (It has been too long, he thinks, since he has seen the boy with Lyanna's eyes.) And it is almost overwhelming when they are arrive and meet the lord and his pinched-faced lady (Cersei Lannister is stunningly beautiful, but she has never taken to the North, he hears). Ned relishes the blast of frigid air on his face, the crunch of a melting summer snow beneath his boots, the fresh scent of northern air so far removed from the sickening heat and stink of King’s Landing. 

He is home, then, and he wishes more than ever that he had never left it. 

He finds the halls and towers are imprinted on his heart, as though he walked them just a day prior and not years ago. And it is in the corridors that he finds the queen one night, after he has helped Ser Barristan pour the king into his bed and left the Lord Commander to guard the room. She is shivering, he notes, garbed in gowns made for summer in the capital and not in the North (despite how she had bundled the children, he thinks), and she looks relieved when he rounds the corner and spots her. 

“Ser Eddard,” she says, and he sees that she tries to still her shaking. “Perhaps you can help. I was hoping that perhaps…if there are warmer chambers. I’m afraid I am ill-prepared for the night air here.”

He thinks of his mother’s rooms, less grand than the chambers Benjen had installed the queen in, but the warmest in the castle. He takes her there, and finds furs that she can wrap around herself as she sinks into a chair. A maid could be called to tend to the fire, but his hands are not grown so used to a sword that he does not recall how to use a fire poker, and he stokes it himself, listening to the quiet sounds of her breathing behind him. 

“I had my northern gowns remade, after our betrothal was broken,” she mentions, and it is the first time she has mentioned to him what nearly was. He had never thought of a small detail such as that, a wardrobe made for winter and in colors of Stark grey and white. He wonders how she would look in the northern garb, rich hair loose upon her shoulders, and thinks she would look beautiful (and perhaps like she belonged). “Did something of me displease you, ser?” she adds, almost casually as she casts her eyes out the window, hands knotted in the furs to hold them around her. 

He blinks, surprised and unprepared. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Your Grace.” 

“After Brandon’s death. You were to wed me, and yet after we met I learned that I was to wed Robert Baratheon instead. Was I not to your liking?” She does not look at him and her tone is conversational, but he can see her reflection off the pane of glass, and there would be something almost humorous of a queen asking a knight if she did not please him if it did not instead set an ache to his heart. They had met but the once, as awkward strangers soon to be husband and wife, and when he left he still did not truly know her and certainly did not love her. But he had left with a sort of certainty that perhaps they would find ways to suit, and it had been more than he had thought when he had arrived. 

He grips his knee so that he does not reach for her hand instead. “We would not have won the war if not for your father. I released you from our betrothal so that you could be a queen.” 

She keeps her eyes to the window and makes a noncommittal hum under her breath, and he remembers anew that she had not sought the crown, they had pushed it onto her head. Perhaps he is not the only one to do his duty, he considers, and yet wish for something different. “You have given a lot to His Grace. He is lucky for your friendship,” she says, and her voice is honest. She smiles slightly, turning her gaze back to look at him. “Winterfell is beautiful. I am glad to finally see it.” 

It does not feel like treason, when he kisses her. Perhaps it would have, in King’s Landing, in the court, but here in Winterfell with her wrapped in furs it feels only play-acting a scene of what could have been, a taste of a life that almost was (and he has one taste, and wants another, and kisses her again). 

It does not feel like bedding the queen, like betraying Robert when she wraps her arms around him, breathes his name against his bottom lip ( _Ned,_ this time, not _Eddard_ nor _ser_ ). Her fingers curl into his hair and she pushes up to stand, the furs slipping off her shoulders and he hesitates with one hand splayed on her back, the other cupping under her bottom when she coaxes him back with her towards the bed. 

“Please?” she murmurs, and he groans and nips her lip. “Just once…” 

And he lets himself go, gives himself just once, just once to indulge in the thought that he refused Robert’s requests, that he took the lordship and he took Catelyn Tully to wife and their children are the Starks in Winterfell. 

He strips the armor and leaves it with his sword on the floor at the foot of the bed before joining her, kneeling up to reach for her hair, unraveling it from the complex southron coils and braids until it falls in loose waves over her shoulders. He buries his hands in it when it is free, the way he likes to think of it, tilting her head up to kiss her while she works on his shirt, fingers brushing against his chest. 

It is even easier to pretend when she is naked on the bed, all the trappings of queenship discarded to the floor, and he strips the last of his garments and tries to forget the white cloak crumpled beside her southron gown.

He is eager, perhaps too eager when he kisses her breasts, slides his palm with skin rough as leather down to cup her sex. But he has kept his vows (until tonight, but that is a different life, not the life he wants tonight, and he pushes it away) and he has nearly forgotten the softness and sweetness of a woman’s body. And if he is too forward, she does not seem to mind; she pushes up against his hand, moans his name again, and she grips him tightly when he mumbles her name into her ribs, calls her _Catelyn_ for the first time since her crowning. 

“Cat,” she corrects softly, and he leans up to look at her. 

“Cat,” he agrees, because he thinks that is what he would have called her. 

It is quick and hurried, when he enters her and begins to move, when she locks her legs around his waist, pulls him into her. She gasps and tips her head back and he lavishes kisses on her neck, breathing _Cat_ there again, and the way that she moans makes him wonder how deeply his sister’s ghost haunts her marriage. 

He braces his knees on the bed, changing the angle, and she chokes out a gasp and lifts her hips to meet him, to drive him deeper. It is easier to watch her this way, and he groans at the way she grips his ribs between her hands, sliding up to trace against his nipples, at the way she draws her lip between her teeth, at the way her hair goes wild on the pillow when he drives into her ( _wild like a wolf_ flickers through his mind). It does not take long before he comes with a grunt, his seed spilling over them both, and she sighs shakily. 

He slides his hand between them, cock still inside her, wrapping the pads of his fingers around her clit to finish her, and she cries out at his touch, grips at his wrist as her cunt pulses around him. Ned thinks that next time he will take his time, will stop and learn her body better, and his cock pulses inside her at the thought before he remembers that there will not (cannot) be a next time. 

Yet when he curls an arm around her, drawing her against him, it still does not feel like wrong-doing. He is merely a lord tonight, he thinks, and she is his lady, and tomorrow the world will be righted again because they said just once, just once they would pretend that things had been different. 

( _Just once_ becomes their mantra. _Just once more_.)

It does not feel like treason until the third child is born, another girl with dark hair, but this one with grey eyes. He cannot stop looking at her, cannot help but brush a finger against one tiny cheek, cannot help but wish to hold her in his arms (but he stays his tongue, bites back the request). Catelyn’s fingers tighten slightly, protectively around the tiny babe, and she briefly meets his gaze with a flash of panic in her eyes when Robert leans down to have a closer look, and Ned’s heart thuds in his throat. 

“My grandfather’s eyes,” he observes, and Ned is able to breathe again and he sees Catelyn ‘s grip relax, her smile return. (And he realizes then that things are not different, things will not change – all at once he is a father and will still never be one.)

When later Robert tells him, wistfully, that the girl looks like Lyanna, and there is no ounce of suspicion in his voice – that is the first moment that it feels like a betrayal.


End file.
